


Thank you, my love, for being my Valentine

by angelfiregirl80



Series: Prompts [31]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Valentine's Day Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-14
Updated: 2016-02-14
Packaged: 2018-05-20 07:42:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5997343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelfiregirl80/pseuds/angelfiregirl80
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After many years and many Valentine's days, Sherlock and John keep celebrating it as if it were the first time</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thank you, my love, for being my Valentine

Sherlock remembers everything, every date, every breath, every wink, every kiss, every touch, every single face, every sigh, every word, every time, but only if it comes from John, the rest, he simply stores it, deletes it, annuls it, or uses it to solve a crime, and then files it under the crime scenes' tags he has created in his mind palace. He knows when John is upset, angry, tired, sad, he can detect a bad dream before it even happens and his mind works a million miles per second to remember the face he has now and when he had it before, and that’s how he chooses which song he should play on his violin.

John has learn too, and now he knows Sherlock better than anyone, and knows when the Detective needs to be left alone, when he’s about to have a bad memory or a bad dream, and when he has had a long day and hasn’t eaten properly, when he’s about to collapse from lack of sleep, and of course when all the Detective needs is his Doctor to share a silent moment, looking at the fire, or watching telly, or simply contemplating each other

Since they got together, their knowledge about each other has increased immensely. Sherlock knows about every sensitive spot over John’s skin, the right place on his neck that renders him boneless or the one right over his lower spine that renders him speechless, and even that one secret spot that only Sherlock can reach in John’s mind, that renders him a fool in love. He also knows about his predilection of Thai whatever, always with cashews and that he’s not very fond of shrimps, his love for Italian food, particularly tiramisu and the way he lights up when Christmas arrives. He also knows when John has seen a sick kid, or when he desperately needs to go out for a pint with his mates.

John knows about Sherlock’s every weakness, like his secret adoration for butter and honey flavoured pancakes, drizzled with hot melted dark chocolate and minced strawberries for breakfast, and that he loves cashews on his Thai and they end up fighting with their sticks to eat the last one, though he always gives it to John. He knows about that spot over Sherlock’s neck that turns him into putty, and of course about that spot over Sherlock’s lower spine that turns him into a blabbering mess, and sure, he also has the perfect spot to stop the Detective’s whirl-winding mind. He’s able to see how the Detective lights up when Halloween arrives, and he also knows when a case has hit to close home.

They know everything about each other, and they celebrate their love in every way possible, kissing, holding hands, using a purple shirt or a navy blue jumper, they even remember important dates and celebrate them properly, accordingly, sharing valuable time with each other, leaving everything behind, a case, the surgery, Mycroft’s latest attempt to kill them, everything…

But there is date, a particular date, not an anniversary, well, kind of an anniversary if you think about it, because they had their first time together on that precise date, not even knowing what date it was until Angelo greeted them and wished them a Happy Valentine’s Day, and by all means, it's an unforgettable date, marked in their calendar over the fridge with a large red circle over it, just in case they have a case, or John has to go to the surgery, or Sherlock has to go disable some international smuggling band.

Sure, they celebrate wedding anniversaries, engagement anniversaries, birthdays, epically, their first kiss, even more epically, but Valentine’s Day has turned into a celebration of more than just their love for each other, and has turned into a celebration of their life together, and of course of their first time ever as very compatible, pliant, pleasing, willing, you name it, partners.  

John the hopeless romantic, takes time off work or whatever it is that he’s doing that day, and prepares his detective breakfast, the butter and honey flavoured pancakes drizzled with hot melted dark chocolate and minced strawberries, prepares them their cuppa and goes back to bed with their breakfast, then makes love to his Detective the same way he did that very first time.  

The afternoon is spent making preparations, they share a rather quick lunch, Chinese from the place with the golden knob, and of course a nice, soothing bath with oils and scents, an afternoon nap in front of the telly, while John watches a Bond movie and Sherlock contemplates John’s face until they both fall asleep on the sofa until a well-planned phone alarm chimes and announces the time to prepare dinner

Sherlock, the logic over love man, turns 180 degrees and becomes a love dove; he turns off his phone and makes dinner; he prepares John’s favourite Thai, with plenty of cashews, and for dessert he prepares, from scratch, enough tiramisu to turn John into a diabetic, and decorates the flat with candles, while John pushes furniture out of the way and creates a makeshift bed with lots of duvets, and checks the chilled champagne and the cooled strawberries.

Sherlock turns the stereo on and his music begins to play, the same exact piece he has composed for their wedding, and all is left is to share a wonderful dinner, just after John gets the fireplace lit with a roaring fire. They dance for a while, laughing, teasing, kissing those memorised spots; then clink glasses, share strawberry kisses, watch the fire in each other’s eyes, make love until their bodies are sated and sleep claims them, holding each other close, feeling the fire warm their sleeping bodies, enjoying each other’s heartbeats, legs tangled, fingers entwined, slow and steady breathing that lull the other into a further state of sleepiness; until the first rays of sun come through the thick curtains and is a new day, maybe a Sunday, maybe a Monday, maybe a Wednesday, and John kisses Sherlock’s shoulder and wakes him gently before pulling him off the makeshift bed and have him in the shower, then John leaves for work, or begins to clean the flat, or writes a blog, or goes over Sherlock’s parents to get the kids; and Sherlock turns back 180 degrees to the same obnoxious arsehole and returns to a forgotten experiment, or goes to the Yard to torment Greg, or the morgue to torment Molly, or simply torments his violin, or John, or his brother, or plays tea with Violet, or pirates with Hamish, and life goes back to normal as if nothing has happened.

But the date is marked, and it doesn’t matter that it’s been over twenty years since they got married, or if they find it difficult to get off the makeshift bed, or if John’s leg or shoulder is flaring, or if Sherlock’s injuries hurt all the same, it doesn’t matter that they are no longer at 221 B, or that their home in Sussex needs to be vacated of grandkids, grandnieces and grandnephews. John will make breakfast and make love to his retired Detective, they’ll share Chinese and a bath, afternoon telly and a nap; and Sherlock would make John’s favourite Thai with lots of cashews and tiramisu from scratch to turn John into a diabetic, and then they will stare at each other’s fiery eyes and make love until their bodies allow them.

Their last words, before sleep claims them, always are “Thank you, my love, for being my Valentine”


End file.
